


there is quiet

by stelleappese



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:01:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7660408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stelleappese/pseuds/stelleappese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bunch of football-related drabbles. I'll add pairings and warnings as I go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sore - Bastian/Lukas

**Author's Note:**

> All the drabbles will be written from a prompt. It *could* be hard to actually see how the prompt put that particular drabble in my head, though.
> 
> I should also mention that I'm a motorsports kind of woman, football *really* isn't my specialty, and I could talk crap. Feel free to point it out when I do.
> 
> Title from [this wonderful poem.](http://jadziad.tumblr.com/post/134630033484/i-dont-love-you-loud-or-monstrously-i-dont-love)

Lukas pictured this a thousand times. He pictured the win as a moment of absolute silence in the middle of the deafening roaring of the crowd, he pictured the fans moving like a colorful human wave, he pictured the way the light would hit the World Cup when held up high. (He pictured Bastian, smiling like he does, like a burst of sunshine between dark clouds. He pictured Bastian's eyes going thin once he located Lukas between his teammates. He pictured the way Bastian would run up to Lukas first, before anybody else, without hesitation.)

(There have been other day-dreams, too. Even less likely than the chance to win a World Cup. Day-dreams of running up to Bastian, cupping his face with his hands and kissing him. Right there, at the center of the world, under (literal) spotlights, with the echoing anthem sung from the bleachers. Day-dreams of a world where Lukas could be the person he truly is without having to give up on his greatest dream. Day-dreams that haven't really changed one bit since he was just a kid, and hadn't even had the guts to tell Bastian that sometimes his rib-cage felt too tight to hold his heart, when Bastian smiled at him.)

He's spent a decent amount of time imagining the celebrations after the match, too. From the final whistle to dawn, making as much noise as possible, feeling the blood rush through his veins, wishing it could never end.  
But that's not what happens.  
What happens in Bastian manages to get drunk while they're still on the bus on the way to the hotel, he shouts rude songs with the rest of the team, laughs like an idiot until his eyes water, and then flops against Lukas and closes his eyes with a satisfied sigh; his hair tickles Lukas' jaw, he's got a little smirk on his face even as he dozes off. It makes the butterflies constantly living in Lukas' stomach go crazy. Lukas figures they'll celebrate properly once they get back home.

"Come on, you dick,” Lukas sighs, but with no trace of bitterness in his voice, “I'm not carrying you.”  
Bastian groans, but gets up on his feet. He makes an effort, though his legs look shaky and he's constantly leaning on Lukas, an arm thrown around him, fingers clutching to Lukas' shirt.

Under the cold light of the elevator, Lukas notices the bruises blooming on Bastian's arms and legs. The light makes them look particularly ugly, makes Bastian look ghostly pale. He's leaning back against the mirrored wall of the elevator, eyes closed, head tilted back ever so slightly. Lukas' eyes unconsciously follow the curve of Bastian's throat. (His brain, the treacherous thing, suggests it would be oh so nice to drag his tongue against it, feel his Adam's apple bob as Bastian holds his breath underneath him.) He feels his mouth go dry. He considers forcing himself to look away, but Bastian, maybe feeling observed, opens his eyes and gives him a vaguely pouting look. He smirks, and the corners of his eyes wrinkle.  
“You look like crap.” Lukas murmurs, but his voice sounds weak even to his own ears.  
“I've always liked how charming you are,” Bastian comments, softly.  
The tone of his voice is weird. The sweetness in it doesn't match his words. Lukas swallows.  
He wraps an arm around Bastian's waist again, propping him up when the elevator stops and the doors open. Bastian briefly presses his nose to the spot behind Lukas' ear, and Lukas has to bite down a sigh.

Lukas unceremoniously drops Bastian on his bed, then turns on the light in the little antechamber. There's some cheerful shouting out in the corridor, someone laughs loudly, someone sings the German national anthem completely out of tune. Rio shimmers out of the window.  
Bastian doesn't even kick off his shoes, just makes himself comfortable, spreadeagled on the bed, with a stupid grin on his face.  
“How are you feeling?” asks Lukas, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his hands.  
The last part of the match has been pretty damn rough on Bastian. Lukas has a flash of Bastian after the umpteenth, violent shove, lying on the battered grass of the Estádio do Maracanã, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.  
“Everything hurts,” giggles Bastian, “I'm so happy. And you're too far. Come here.”  
“I _am_  here.”  
“No, you're not.” complains Bastian, sitting up with a grunt and grabbing Lukas, pulling him down with him. Lukas struggles for a moment, laughing, but Bastian isn't drunk enough he forgot how ticklish Lukas is, and he overpowers him very easily.

“All right, all right, fine, I'm here now,” half-shouts, half-laughs Lukas, swatting away Bastian's hands, quietly very pleased at how tangled in each other they are. “I'm here.”  
Bastian smiles happily, his eyes looking almost pitch black in the semi-darkness of the bedroom. The cut under his eye is bleeding again, but he doesn't seem to care, or notice. He presses his forehead against Lukas', their noses brushing together for a second. Lukas' hand somehow ended up on Bastian's waist; he fights against the urge to sneak it under his shirt, but gives up in the end. Bastian's breath catches in his throat when the palm of Lukas' hand molds to Bastian's naked side (Is he hurting him?), but he doesn't complain. His eyes linger on Lukas' lips for a moment, then dart back up.  
“Will you remember this tomorrow morning?” asks Lukas. Bastian's fingers are mindlessly wandering against the back of Lukas' head. His other hand is pressed against Lukas' chest. Lukas wonders if Bastian can feel his heartbeat under his fingertips.  
“I promise.” murmurs Bastian.  
As he leans in (Bastian's breath puffing against his mouth; his eyes slowly, almost reluctantly, falling closed; his tongue flashing between his parched lips for a fraction of a second), Lukas finds he believes him. And that he doesn't mind this sort of celebrations either.

 


	2. Frail - Bastian/Lukas

The day feels like it could fall to pieces if someone spoke too loudly. The grass on the field is shimmering, washed clean by the thin spring rain that's been falling since last night; the clouds still linger lazily above then, rumbling more grumpily than threateningly.

Still, Lukas tries to ignore the apparent perpetual twilight they've all been trapped into. He goes through the routine like always, laughs -well, giggles- at something silly Thomas says, raises his arms in triumph when his half of the team scores against the other half, groans his way through a massage session.

But when the sun goes down, and the horizon explodes with shades of red and gold and purple, Lukas catches himself staring outside the window and hugging himself, pushing back a shiver.

“What is it?” asks Bastian, and Lukas flinches and turns around with a hop. Bastian smirks at his startled expression. Lukas would pout at him and declare him a dick, but the frail light of the setting sun is playing on Bastian's hair, and his eyes look so very green as he walks closer, standing right next to Lukas and looking outside, as if to figure out what had managed to catch Lukas' attention so deeply.

Bastian leans into him a little, probably without noticing or meaning to; his arm brushes against Lukas'. “Is something wrong?” he asks, eyes slowly scanning the view from the window, then moving on Lukas, the question echoing in them, too.

“No...” murmurs Lukas. He says it without thinking, but finds out he's not lying. “No, everything's good.”

He turns to look at the sunset again, at the bright stripe of light that survived the clouds. Yeah. It's not that eerie after all.

 


End file.
